


His and Hers

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Mates, Scent Marking, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:19:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's in his gut, it rolls and swells and he reaches out to grab her. In his arms, he knows, this is right, this is where she belongs, this should've happened ages ago. He inhales her scent, feels her heartbeat, and curses himself for time wasted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His and Hers

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I brewed up. Hope you like it.

Sherlock sucks in a breath, preparing himself for the momentary pain of Shifting. The scorching heat and sharp pain come and go quickly, along with the body that had fingers, and walked on two legs. Flesh ripples and bones twist, a sickening chorus of pops and the low hiss of fur erupting over him.

Sherlock stretches as soon as his body finishes changing, shaking out his fur and arching his back, letting out a low purr when his muscles release the tension of the Shift.

It is night and his white fur stands out, creating an almost ethereal glow when the moon hits the cream strands. He blends easily into the brush, the glances of his hide mistaken for strips of moonlight.

He brushes against the vegetation, letting his scent mark where he has been. It might even attract a mate. Mate. What a crude word. John has found his mate, a little puma named Mary. John himself is some german shepherd/husky mix. His bright blue eyes shine over his yellow fur, tinged black around his muzzle and eyes, tipping his ears and tail. He is bigger than normal canines, being the abnormally large size that all Shifts seem to be, slightly smaller than the average horse.

Mostly everyone in the military Shifts into some canine. They're more prone to loyalty and obedience. Sherlock knows that Shifting into a feline states that you're independent, if not solitary. He doesn't mind. Of course he doesn't. In fact, he's a little vain about his Shift, the ivory fur, such a rarity for lions. His mane is a halo around his head and neck, as wild as the curls he was born with.

He loves the contrast, his turquoise eyes staring out over cream fur. He loves the feel of his paws padding over the soft ground of the forest, moss and damp grass settling between his toe pads. He loves the power, the coil and snap of his pounce, the ripple of his muscles. He loves the grace, the smooth gait in which this body allows him to walk, the elegant rock and cadence.

The inhabiting animals don't approach him; they can sense he isn't one of them. They know to stay away. He stops by a stream, dips his head and laps up the water. It's cold, and crisp. He doesn't have to worry about parasites, or anything like that. The biology of his body, both of them, give him many perks, a tough immune system being one of them.

He brings his head back up after his thirst is slated, and licks his chops, stray water droplets flying through the air. His sense of smell is more sensitive in this body. He inhales the scent of a buck grazing about a mile away. It's heady, and gamey.

He doesn't prefer to eat in this body. Too much chaos. If he had too, though, if the only weapon he had was this body's canines and claws, he wouldn't hesitate to use them. It just doesn't sit well with the human side of him to eat a raw, steaming carcass.

A clearing is up ahead, a lovely place that's perfect for anything, really. Sherlock lopes the last few feet and bursts into the clearing, relaxing and letting his body roll down the slight hill until he comes to a rest in the dip, a little hammock, of sorts. The rain gathers in the divot and softens the dirt. The grass is always the softest and fullest there. He turns on his back and wiggles, rubbing against the earth like a lover.

A sound reaches his ear; soft, constant. It stops immediately when he stills, rolling on his stomach and perking his ears.

Sherlock stands slowly. As a general moral rule, Shifters don't hunt each other. It would be nearly impossible to mistake another Shifter for a regular animal. You would have to blatantly ignore their scent, and the awareness that crept over you.

With a great inhale, his sensitive nostrils quiver. He tries to catch a scent, but the faint trickle of lemon he smells is miniscule, and the direction confuses him. He can't see the Shifter around him, but he can sense them. It's a faint tingle near the base of his neck, a frisson of energy up the spine.

He scans the area with his eyes, twitching his ears and flicking his tail lazily. Sherlock can see nothing but the forest around him, the trees lining the clearing thrown into silver ribbons by the moonlight. If he's lucky, the Shifter will make a mistake, and he will catch a glimpse of their reflected irises.

Molly didn't meant to stop and watch. She has seen the white lion before, but she has always stayed hidden. But when she saw him turn into the ground, she couldn't help a low purr of vicarious satisfaction from crawling up her throat. And he has heard her.

She knows she shouldn't allow him to see her, she needs to remain anonymous. She loves Shifting, but she like to keep to herself. There is a kind of giddiness with keeping her Shift a secret. No one Molly knows has seen her Shift, save for her parents and brother. Mary had invited her on a run once, but she had carefully deflected with the universal excuse of: "Sorry, I have to work."

Still, she feels a sudden rush of daring, and she pads forward slowly, out of the brush, just enough so the lion will catch the relection of her eyes, if not the unavoidable sight of her muzzle, jutting out of her skull. Molly's fur, like the lion's, is out of place in this forest. Her hide is more fit for rocks, and snow, where regular snow leopards reside, but she hides her spotted grey, tan, and white fur among the trees, and the occasional rock wall. Her Shift has adapted to her environment, and when she had moved here years ago, it had been a season of hellish shedding. Her nostrils, biologically designed to warm the air which normally would be chilled, had clogged her lungs with hot, wet air, like the area had been through monsoon season, until it too, had evolved.

Sherlock offers no reaction when he sees the reflection from the Shifter's tapetum lucidum. He stays standing, and stares at the Shifter, only catching a glimpse of it's muzzle before the clouds shift. He curves his spine briefly, before padding slowly torwards them.

Molly crouches now, out of instinct, but, somehow, she knows the lion will not attack her. She waits with baited breath, straining her ears to catch the soft thump of the lion's measured footfalls towards her. The brush moves aside, and two large, snowy, paws come to rest in front of her. She follows the path up to a muscular chest, partially obscured by the wild mane that circles the lion's head. She is a bit startled by the vibrancy of the lion's eyes. Incredibly bright looking down over his white fur, kaleidoscope green and blue.

Sherlock looks down at the snow leopard, who meets his gaze with hesitancy and curiosity. Chocolate brown eyes peer at him, moving slightly in their sockets as she stands, forcing them both to step back slightly, less their muzzles touch.

Molly inhales deeply, noting with some surprise that the scent is vaguely familiar. Shifter's scents aren't the same in both forms, but there is always some link between the two. The lion seems to be having the same reaction, and they circle each other, scenting the air, their ears laid back in wariness and their heads cocked in confusion.

Sherlock stops, prompting Molly to follow, and they come to a standstill facing each other. She stays still as he steps forward, and Molly allows the lion to brush against her body, quivering when he stops to lay his head over her back, growling softly.

They can't talk, the vocal cords of their Shifts won't allow it. All they can use to communicate is their bodies, words told in the position of their ears and the sway of their tails. Molly can hear the implied question anyway. _Who are you?_

The lion comes to face her again, and his identity hits her with the force of a brick wall. Molly chirps softly and her ears fall back. Even in the face of a lion, Sherlock's eyes bear into you with an intensity that tears you apart and puts you back together, and the underlying scent of sandalwood seems to be the only thing she can smell. Molly doesn't know why, but she is filled with a shocking need to keep him in the dark, and she knows if she stays any longer, Sherlock will figure out who she is.

Sherlock knows the moment the snow leopard figures out who he is, and he stamps his foreleg in frustration. The leopard's brown eyes, completely ordinary in every way, suddenly dart anxiously to the side, and her long tail sways like a nervous tic behind her.

Molly shifts her weight slightly, but Sherlock's eyes still catch her movement, and Molly makes a split-second decision. She crouches swiftly and darts to the side, bypassing Sherlock quickly and making a getaway. She hopes her large paws and long tail will give her the advantage, having excellent grip and balance. Molly knows Sherlock is stronger than her, and probably faster, but she still hopes.

She hears his roar, the sound filling her with a sickening sense of desperation, and she pushes herself even harder. The sound of his feet hitting the ground reaches her ears quickly, and she takes to darting around the trees, weaving through them with agility.

She spins her ears around, trying to gage how close Sherlock is. He is closing in, and Molly veers to the right, seeing where a large boulder sits. She crouches minutely and jumps, her long back legs aiding her in her plight. She uses the boulder as a stepping stone and sails in the air, coasting over the ground until she lands, a good ten or so feet ahead of where she would've been had she continued to run.

A large tree had fallen over, and Molly prepares to jump, when a large weight slams into her right side. She lands safely, and scrambles to stand, her claws scratching the earth and her tail swinging wildly.

Sherlock bounds over to her and attempts to bite her scruff, a weak point for any feline, and she rolls, using the distraction to jump on his back. They tousle, the forest going quiet around their snarls of outrage and yowls of pain, the sound of their fight tearing apart the serene scene of the forest.

When Sherlock overpowers her, she snarls, trying to squirm out from under him. He gathers the skin of her neck into his mouth, and she shakes, fighting futilely to ignore her body's reaction, but that ends quickly, and she goes pliant under him. As soon as he stands, Molly rolls, showing Sherlock her belly, and Sherlock purrs in agreement.

Molly knows she shouldn't, it's not like they're mates, and it's Sherlock(!), but she stands, and begins to lick the wound at his shoulder, where she had caught him with her claws. Sherlock growls softly, but he lays down when she moves to lick at the cut on his leg.

When Molly finishes, she rests her head on her paws and licks her chops. Sherlock shuffles on his stomach over to her and takes care of the gash on her back, resting a paw on her leg to keep her in place. She meows quietly, and Sherlock rests his head over her spine. She scoots forward until she can lay her head over his back in return.

Sherlock feels the leopard begin to purr, and it vibrates along his spine. For some reason, a bolt of intense satisfaction hits him, and he shifts her closer to him. She is pleased because of _him_. An even stronger wave of feeling flows through him when the leopard moves to clean him, licking the expanse of his chest and face. It feels _right_ to be here with her, it feels _right_ to have her next to him.

The sun begins to rise, and Sherlock knows he has to get back, or John will worry, and that will prompt an annoying lecture where Sherlock will be forced to mentally recite the fibonacci sequence so as not to die of irritation.

He stands, and momentarily debates whether or not to Shift in front of the leopard. It is obvious she knows him, but there was always the chance she had mistaken him for another Shifter. He decides, and a frisson of heat and pain rips down his spine, bones changing and joints popping, fur giving way to smooth alabaster skin. He stands now, looking down on the leopard.

Molly mewls softly in the back of her throat. She knew the white lion was Sherlock, but she still had been holding on to hope, any hope that she was wrong. And now, here he is, standing in front of her, his naked, pale expanses of skin glowing in the moonlight. He is obviously expecting her to do the same, Shift and reveal who she is and how she knows him, but surely, surely after figuring out she is; Molly, little annoying Molly who stares too much, and that he had chased her, laid with her, that she had seen his naked body, he would have more disdain for her than before, although the amount had dropped slightly since she helped him with the Fall.

So she does not return the favour, and for the second time that night, she runs.

Sherlock almost goes after the snow leopard, but sighs in resignation and annoyance, turning on his heel and walking through the forest on bare feet. He picks the bag he brought with him out of a tree, and dresses, shouldering the bag and using his phone to call a cab. He runs her scent through his mind all day, and he knows he will not feel peace until he finds whoever smelled sweetly of lemon.

______________________________

Molly tenses slightly as Sherlock enters the lab, but she hopes he will chalk it up to her usual embarrassed behavior. He says nothing, sitting down brusquely before his microscope, and she knows she should ask him for coffee. That would be the normal, unsuspicious thing to do, but all she wants to do is escape, and run. She settles for being as quiet as possible, making small movements so as not to attract his attention. _Not that he ever does anyway_ , a bitter part of her remarks. John sits down in a chair, sighing before pulling out a book. Minutes pass, and Molly's anxiety abates in small amounts, until Sherlock speaks.

"You're unusually quiet today, Molly. I do hope you're not moping."

Molly flinches at the sound of Sherlock's voice, the timbre not unlike the rumble of his roar.

"No," she says lightly, hoping the answer will satisfy him.

"Are you sure you're alright, Molly?" John asks, always the kind and caring friend.

"Yes, John. I'm alright. Thank you for asking, though," Molly replies, hating the tightness in her voice.

She excuses herself moment later, that idiotic note of sandalwood in Sherlock's scent making her feel claustrophobic. She steps into the hallway, and doesn't stop walking until she is at the only place she's sure Sherlock won't follow.

Back in the lab, John looks to Sherlock, who is staring at the door Molly had just been through with a confused expression on his face, his held tilted and nostrils flaring.

"Have you ever seen Molly Shift, John?" Sherlock asks him.

John thinks for a moment. "No. Why?"

Sherlock sits up straight, apparently lost in thought, before his eyes shock open. "Of course! It was her," he growls.

"Sherlock? Who-Sherlock!" John asks, scrambling for his coat when Sherlock shoots up and disappears."Sherlock! Wait!" he calls after him.

Sherlock spins into the hallway of Bart's, trying to follow that trail of lemon. He breathes in, ignoring the people who move aside for him easily. Finally, Sherlock reaches a familiar and daunting door, and opening it, he sees the stairs he had walked so long ago.

"Damnable woman," he curses, spitting venom at Molly, hating every step he has to take, but he is Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes will _never_ let fear override curiosity.

When he at last reaches the roof of Barts, Sherlock forces his wobbly legs to carry him to Molly, who sits cross legged, resting her elbows on the ledge.

"Molly," he says loudly, frowning when she whips around so fast she scrapes her elbow on the rough brick. Molly's stomach drops and her heart leaps into her skull. She absentmindedly covers her hurt elbow, focusing on not throwing up.

She sees Sherlock look out over the edge, before turning his face away and down, closing his eyes, and she feels like the worst human being on earth. She should've known he would follow her. She moves slightly, preparing to lead him back into the building, but he stops her by sitting down in front of her.

Sherlock leans forward, and she subconsciously mirrors his movement, squeaking in surprise when he grabs the back of her skull and buries his nose in the crook of her neck. Molly feels her body flush, and she knows Sherlock will feel her racing pulse. Despite her shock and embarrassment, her Shift recognizes Sherlock and prompts her to tilt her head, allowing him more space. She shivers, feeling the warm puffs of breath from his nostrils trail over her skin. When he releases her, she instantly bows her head, trying in vain to hide her burning cheeks and to calm her racing heart.

"You're the snow leopard from last weekend," he states.

"Yes," Molly replies.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment."Why did you run?"

Molly searches her head for any excuse that won't make her sound pathetic, and finding none, she sighs. "I didn't want to see the look of regret on your face when you found out who I was," she answers softly.

"Regret? What would I regret?" Sherlock asks, bewildered.

Sherlock is a brilliant genius, yet sometimes he can be so daft.

"The leopard being me," Molly answers.

Sherlock looks even more confused, and Molly's embarrassment hikes up another notch. Humiliating.

"Why would I regret the leopard being you?"

Molly wants to pull on her hair and screech, but she manages to say, "Because you don't like me, Sherlock. You would regret the leopard being me, because you don't like me."

Sherlock opens his mouth again, but Molly cuts him off.

"We're not friends, Sherlock. This relationship is convenient, and nothing more. You've made that known plenty of times. I'm here when you need body parts, or the lab, but if I quit and another pathologist you could manipulate walked in tomorrow, you wouldn't miss me. And because of that, I think it would be best for both of us to just forget what happened over the weekend. I'll find a new place to Shift, and you won't have to worry."

Molly looks up, Sherlock having not said anything. He looks distraught, and it makes her flinch, the only other time he wore that expression flashing in her mind; right after the Fall, when she had cleaned the blood off him then handed him to Mycroft.

"Have I really made you feel that way?" Sherlock asks, and if Molly didn't know better, she might say she heard a bit of inflextion in his voice.

"Yes," she says lightly, hoping once again her tone will convince him to drop the conversation.

Sherlock's brow furrows, and his fingers tap on his thigh in one, two, three repetitions. He clears his throat, and Molly waits. She waits for the forced apology to come, she waits for the false smile and the kiss on her cheek that Sherlock believes will solve this problem.

"I...was aware that other people's sensitivities did not register in my mind, but I did not know my belittlement of our relationship had led you to believe the same thing." Sherlock breathes in and exhales slowly. "When I said you counted, Molly, I was not lying, or trying to manipulate you. You are a soothing balm, something to calm. You are a part of my life, and...I would rather have you close to me than anywhere else. You belong where-where I am. You belong with me. To think that you are regrettable, is something I will not tolerate. You must stop at once. You are wrong," Sherlock says, and even though his eyes have stayed somewhere to her right the whole time he'd spoken, Molly feels as if he were holding her hands and staring into her eyes with every word.

"I-I...okay," Molly breathes, fiddling with a loose string on her pants. It seems as if Sherlock's objective upon meeting her was to humiliate, then confuse her with every interaction. He has not disappointed.

When Molly next looks up, Sherlock is staring at her intensely, as if he is trying to see through her. She freezes in her gaze, unknowingly straightening her spine and tilting her chin up, her hands falling limply to her thighs. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. Molly may not know what she is doing, but Sherlock does. She is offering herself to him. Seconds pass, and Sherlock feels his Shift creep up his spine, urging him to act. The same shock of feeling erupts in his gut, and he moves without thinking, gathering Molly in his arms and holding her close to him, surrounding her with his body. He is being big for her, being strong, showing her how much he can keep her safe, keep her close.

Molly stiffens in surpirse, but when Sherlock's arms tighten and he wraps her in his coat, she relaxes, moving closer to his body. She feels so safe, so cared for and protected. There are no thoughts going through her mind, no questions, and all she breathes in is his scent, and all she hears is his heartbeat. She has no idea how long he holds her, it could have gone on for hours, or minutes. Molly is swimming in Sherlock, and he is so warm, and he smells so good. So strong, so masculine that she feels the tingle of her Shift in her shoulders, and she mewls quietly, Sherlock's chest rumbling against her ear when he hears. Sherlock's gut clenches and he feels suddenly bereft of breath. The knowledge hits him, the truth of this hits him with the force of a fist. This is where she belongs. In his arms, with him. She belongs with him. She belongs to him. She is his, and he is hers.

The embrace hits the core of their instincts. When Sherlock draws back, Molly is confused, and she clutches at him, wrapping fingers in his shirt. She thinks she has done wrong, but Sherlock offers a small and soft smile, soothing her, and Molly's shoulders relax again, her lips coming up from their frown and issuing a happy smile in response.

Sherlock rubs his hands on his chest before rubbing them down Molly's arms. She shivers with the knowledge that he is scenting her, marking her so that no other men proposition her. His fingers make their way down her back and through her hair. Molly shivers again, the sensation sending waves of tingles through the muscles of her back.

When Sherlock is apparently pleased, he stands, offering Molly his hand. When she is in front of him, he stoops to lay a gentle kiss at her crown, bending lower to sniff around her, and Molly's heart thumps so hard she is sure it has escaped her chest. Sherlock pushes her ahead with a hand on the small of her back, and they go down the stairs together, Molly wishing she could turn around and see his face.

When they are once again in the hallways of Bart's, Sherlock draws Molly close again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Molly hides a proud and shy smile, watching all the males around them sniff and glare at Sherlock. Sherlock smirks widely, and adds a swagger to his step. He is on display, his female is on display, and he revels in the jealousy he finds.

Sherlock leads Molly into the lab, and when John sees Sherlock's arm around Molly, he immediately stands.

"Molly?" John asks, his face creasing with worry. "Are you okay? What happen-"

John is a foot away from them when he stops. His brows lower, and he frowns, inhaling minutely. It's in these moments Sherlock can see the Shift inside him, the canine pacing and laying it's ears back, tail wagging slowly. He knows John catches Sherlock's scent all over Molly when the doctor's eyes flick to him, and he cocks his head, confused. Sherlock smiles smugly, and pulls Molly closer to him. His hand drops to her waist, and when he squeezes her hip tightly, her chin tilts up the smallest amount. Intense gratification and delight flood his body when John's eyes widen and flicker between the two of them. John's jaw drops, and he looks to Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow and shifting his weight back.

"You two - ?" John gapes.

"You'll want to find some place to spend the night tonight, John. Molly and I will be occupying the flat," Sherlock says. "Rather loudly, I'm sure."

Molly drops her head instantly, equal parts mortified and excited at what Sherlock has just alluded to - in front of John. Sherlock looks down at Molly, and he is wholly excited at finding just how far down her blush reaches, because from his vantage point, it has alpready spread over the top of her breasts.

After a few moments of astonished silence from John, he nods understandingly, yet unsure. Sherlock takes what he can get and tips his head to John, pulling Molly gently until she follows his lead and walks out of the lab. On the curb, waiting for a cab, Sherlock surrounds Molly in his coat, in him. His hackles raise and a growl sounds menacingly in his throat whenever an unbonded male comes near them. His hold on Molly is fragile, and every fibre of his being, every strand of DNA that is his Shift urges, pushes, _commands_ that he lays his claim on her.

When a cabbie finally stops for them, Sherlock wastes no time in pushing Molly into the backseat and scrambling after her. Molly starts in surprise when Sherlock grabs her tightly, but she quickly relaxes, proceeding to melt into a puddle when Sherlock begins to nuzzle and suck on the flesh of her neck.

At Baker Street, Sherlock makes sure to reassure himself and Molly that she is his. Again, and again, and again, until they are both sore in the best ways, sweaty and gasping for breath. She is so _good_ for him, such a lovely, gentle, submissive presence under the weight of his body. She follows every order, makes such pretty sounds. She is the perfect person for him, the perfect mate, and it is known to everybody the next week when they see the crescent scars of his teeth in the crook of her neck.

By the end of the night, and through the resulting years, there is never any doubt she belongs to him, but they both know, even if it is never said, that if Molly so much as _crooks_ a finger at Sherlock, he will come _racing_ to her side.


End file.
